


The Avenging Games

by printer001



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Children, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Death, Family, Friendship, Relationship(s), Team, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:52:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4545630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/printer001/pseuds/printer001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Earth's mightiest heroes didn't come together in the era most stories predict? What if, in their absence, the world fell into chaos, only to have order reestablished in a horrifying dictatorship led by none other than Thanos?  Now we come to a time where our heroes have yet to meet, and still lack the superpowers that many say made them special.  Can they still avenge their world as children?  Let us watch and see in Marvel's installment of the 74th Annual Hunger Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note on the setting - The twelve districts exist as planets, connected through the Federation of Marvel that is currently under the control of President Thanos. This will be explained in greater detail later on, but I wanted to avoid confusion when considering transportation and other aspects of the story. Happy Hunger Games!

          Steve woke to the familiar sight of light peeking through the grime covered window across from his bed.  Swinging his legs over the side of the worn cot, he watched specks of ash fly up from his sudden movement in a half-asleep daze.  Blinking away the past night, his stomach dropped with the dust as Steve realized the date on the calendar.  It was the morning of the reaping.

          Making his way around the kitchen, Steve frowned at the empty basket that usually held the meager offering of vegetables that he earned working odd jobs around town.  District Twelve was officially a mining district, but that didn’t mean everybody worked with coal.  Before school, Steve cleaned the school house grounds and helped out at the town bakery after.  Losing his father to an accident years ago, Steve had to step up as the man of the house before most of his classmates could read.  His mother usually did laundry for the better off families, but had been bedridden for months with a case of pneumonia.  Most people had thought she would give up after the death of her husband, but Sarah Rogers was not a quitter.  Every night, before Steve would go to bed, she would whisper in his ear, “We can do this Stevie.  We can do this.”  Shaking his head at the words he now told himself daily, Steve took down the animal bones to make a broth for the third time this week.

 

* * *

 

          Over in District One, Natasha Romanov rose with the grace of a ballerina, leaving no evidence of her previous location in bed.  She looked around the dormitory to see others already getting ready, despite the fact that the sun had yet to come up.  Today was the day they had all been training for, and it was important to look their best for the rest of the capitol to see.  Natasha made her way over to the ornate mirror that had already drawn a cluster of girls.  Reaching for the curlers, she bumped shoulders with a tall brunette grasping a cherry lipstick.  Turning a cool eye over her shoulder, the girl sneered, “Watch where you’re going fire-head.  Show some respect to your superiors.”  Natasha gave no hint of recognition, starting to twist her orange hair around the rolls’ spines.  The other girl continued undeterred, “Why bother getting ready? It’s not like you even have a chance of getting picked to volunteer.  The school board would never let such a failure embarrass us in the games.”  With one last lip pucker the girl turned to leave, whispering in Natasha’s ear, “And don’t even think about volunteering.  This is my year, and nobody is going to get in my way.”  Staring impassively at her reflection in the mirror, Natasha looked at the retreating back of the girl unimpressed.  Like any girl here would say any different.

 

* * *

 

          Just across the street, Clint Barton perched on the corner of the roof topping the building he had spent his past thirteen years in.  Surveying the city as its wealthy inhabitants started to go about their daily schedules, he almost laughed at the lack of sense in it all.  Hidden from sight, it would be easy to pull his bow from his back holster and let an arrow fly at the bedazzled woman now scurrying along the sidewalk under his feet.  She was barely moving at a rate to challenge a child, most likely taking a walk of shame after a night of drinking and poor decisions.  Gazing at her jewel-studded hair, Clint fingered the string of his bow.  Such an action would be heralded in the games.  A like choice would be rewarded at his school.  It may even be overlooked in this district, where fashion and appearance could wield greater crimes than physical bloodshed.  Yet as the sparkling lady moved further away, Clint started back towards his dormitory.  He felt no loss or satisfaction at her escape, just resignation.

 

* * *

 

 

          Tony Stark slept soundly, sprawled across the floor of District Three’s best invention lab, cuddling a welding torch like most children his age would hold a teddy bear.  Letting out a snore, it looked as though he might snooze the day away.  Or at least that’s what he thought until a metallic arm prodded his shoulder.

          “No Dum-E, five more minutes,” Tony whined, rolling away from the bot.  Dum-E whirred in response, prodding his shoulder again.  “Come on,” Tony pleaded, “Just a couple seconds, I promise.”  After being poked a couple more times, Tony glared at the machine and snarked, “Who cares about the reaping.  Nobody’ll notice if I just stay down here.”  Closing his eyes, Tony ignored the whirs of the machine beside him, letting out a sigh of relief when the bot moved away.  Already snoring within a couple minutes, Tony slept on oblivious as Dum-E returned with a fire extinguisher ready to go.   

 

* * *

 

          “Thor Odinson, if you do not come down here this instant I will consume this feast of kings without you!” 

          Rubbing his eyes, Thor groaned in response, “SIF!” 

          As if on cue, a teenage girl slammed open the bedroom door with a wild grin, “Your father will not be pleased if you are late for the breaking of fasts again!” 

          Thor rolled his eyes, grumbling, ”I would not be late if he did not insist on obtaining sustenance at such a time that the sun has barely broken the horizon’s line.” 

          Following the bouncing girl down a marble staircase to the dining room, Thor greeted her brother Heimdall with a handshake, “It is good to see you, my friend.” 

          Heimdall smiled in return, “And I, you.” 

          Just as the three had sat down to the platters laid across a long table, Odin entered the room with a grin, “My children, do you forget your manners in waiting for the head of table to eat?”  

          Dropping bread from his hand as if burned, Thor quickly stated, “Sorry father.” 

          Odin replied with exasperation, “No matter now, but do work to remember in the future Thor.”  

          Looking at the three expecting faces, his smile turned grim as he began again, “Now I know that I do not need to remind what today is.”  Three heads shook as he continued, “I just want to say, that no matter what the events of this afternoon bring, I am proud of all of you.” Eyes serious, he gazed at Thor and Sif in turn, “We should thank the gods for Heimdall’s ability to survive his games, but that does not mean that either of you should go looking for glory in his footsteps.  There are numerous paths in which one can display honor and courage without killing our kind for sport.”  Drawing another breath, Odin smiled again, “But we should not worry ourselves on what may come to pass and rather focus on the delicious foods placed in front of us.  Let us eat.” 

 

* * *

 

          Bruce Banner rolled out of bed to look at the bright lights of District Five.  Power cords seemed to run everywhere: up walls, down streets, through houses, even down potholes that led to who knows where.  He sighed at the still dark sky that almost grimaced at him in foreboding of the day to come. 

          The irony wasn’t lost on him.  Many would kill to be in the position he was now because of the beloved capitol and their games, but they didn’t know the price.  Bruce’s father had been one of the most promising upcoming students in his class, the top actually, and was already getting business offers when he got reaped.  The only tribute to survive that year, Bruce’s father was never the same.  He still got married, had a kid, and moved on with his life, but the kind man that people tell Bruce about was gone.  Plagued by gruesome nightmares and flashbacks, Mr. Banner took out every phantom pain on those closest to him: his family.   Bruce hated the Hunger Games.


	2. The Reaping

          Steve kissed the brow of his mother’s head, whispering a soft, “I love you” into her matted hair before leaving the house.  Walking towards the town square, Steve held his head up high, even as his palms began to sweat.  His Sunday best wasn’t much by a long shot, but Steve had washed the worst of the dirt off his face and tucked in the one button down shirt his father used to wear.  The shirt’s shoulders, stretched from his father’s large frame, billowed in the wind around his skinny arms, already mocking the malnutrition that stunted his growth.  Steve was actually seventeen, but could still be mistaken for fourteen or twelve.  Not wanting to argue with the peacekeepers separating the children into different sections, he puffed up his chest as if it would make him look bigger.  Working through the line, he stared at the bowl holding the name of District Twelve’s next male tribute.  He knew the number of the fifty-two strips of paper waiting in that bowl with his name, promising just enough food for his mother and him for the next year.  The truth was, the odds weren’t really in his favor.

          Soon enough, a woman from the capitol was escorted to the stage to begin the same monologue they heard every year.  Yes, the rebellion was bad.  Yes, the hunger games still exist.  Yes, your tribute will most likely die, but won’t it be fun to watch?  Growing sick as her words turned more morbid and condescending, he glanced over at the one victor his district ever produced: James Barnes.  James, or “Bucky,” as everyone around here called him, was a coal-mine worker that had the bad luck to be picked on his last year of eligibility after just after turning eighteen.  His luck returned when the arena was set in an underground cave.  After years in the mines, he had a huge advantage over the other tributes, which obviously paid off in the end.  But Bucky was a pretty swell guy before he even entered the games.  Steve could remember back in grade school, when the other kids would pick on him, Bucky would always defend him.  Bucky was also the only person that ever encouraged Steve to draw.  He loved his sketches so much, that sometimes when he found leftover charcoal in the mines, he would sharpen it on rocks into pencil-like shapes that Steve could use.  It was safe enough to say the Bucky was Steve’s idol growing up, and still was.

          Drawn out of his reverie by a small cough from the microphone, Steve tensed in alarm as he saw the capitol woman’s perfectly manicured hand dip into the girls’ bowl to retrieve a slip of paper.  Taking her time to unfold it, she grinned out at the audience staring back at her in panicked consternation.  Steve could feel everyone collectively hold their breath as she finally called out, ”Margaret Carter.”  Sobs surrounded the girl as she made her way to the stage, eyes hard and back straight in contrast to the wails of her friends behind her.  The capitol woman cheerily continued on as if oblivious to the pain she just dealt some poor family, “And now onto the boys!”  Silence quickly reigned again as everyone watched in dread to find out which boy would be sent to his probable death this year.  Rooting around the parchment-filled bowl, the woman picked out a slip, holding it out in front of her to read off the name “Steve Rogers.”

          Steve’s heart stopped.  For a moment, he couldn’t breathe and thought that he was going to have a panic attack right then and there on national television.  But then he thought of his mother and said to himself, “We can do this _._ ”  Resolve now strengthened, Steve took a gulp of air and forced his legs to take him across the square to stand next to the capitol woman.  Looking out at all the pitying faces for the skinny boy in a man’s shirt, Steve kept saying in his head, “We can do this.” He didn’t want to think about the consequences if they can’t.

          Peacekeepers swiftly escorted Peggy and Steve into different rooms to wait for their families to come say good-bye.  Steve really just wanted to be alone, but appreciated the support of the town in coming to see him since his mother couldn’t.  He could tell they were all thinking the same thing, how horrible it was to send such a frail boy into the arena.  It was obvious that nobody thought he could win, with words of farewell vastly outnumbering any wishes of good luck.  As condolences washed over his ears, he wished that he could see his mother again before he left.  Steve knew that without him taking care of her, she would die.  It wasn’t just his life on the line in this Hunger Games.

* * *

 

          Natasha Romanov strode confidently in line with the other girls from her training school up to the registration booth.  The city park had been decorated with shimmering tinsel and streamers, creating an atmosphere more akin to a sporting event.  Food vendors sold game-themed candy to children, while clothing designers sat at booths advertising District One gear.  Live music wafted through the air, various renditions of the national anthem playing on repeat.  Raffle tickets floated around for those wanting to bet on who the tributes would be this year.  Wealthy sponsors looked on from aerial seating boxes, sizing each of them up like a rider might consider a prize race horse.  The reapings just weren’t quite the same in District One. 

          Nobody cried when a name was picked, because one of the careers always volunteered.  Rather than be seen as a death sentence, being a tribute in one of the games was one of the highest honors a person could achieve here.  Natasha thought it was funny, that even in the lap of luxury the most celebrated people were cold-blooded murderers.  You couldn’t think too hard about the games, because then you would start to question the entire system under President Thanos and there was no tolerance for dissent.  Still, it wasn’t like she or her classmates had any choice in the matter.  After being enrolled at the most elite games training school in the district, there was no way anyone would hire an assassin to work in a bakery or store.  No, the games were her only career choice.  That’s probably how the previous graduates got nicknamed the careers.

          After waiting an hour for all tributes and spectators to file into the stands, Natasha watched a man from the capitol make his way to the central platform amid the flash of cameras.  She zoned out for his speech, having memorized the monologue before the age of ten.  Finally, the moment arrived for the girl’s tribute to be called.  Natasha knew she had to raise her hand before anyone else in her school volunteered, since there could only be one potential tribute change.  As the man’s pudgy fingers unfurled a paper slip, she doubted why she was even doing this.  She didn’t want to die.  But then Natasha remembered her training; this was what she was meant to do.  Allowing no hesitation, the second after the man finished reading some girl’s name, Natasha raised her hand with confidence, “I volunteer.”

* * *

 

          On the other side of the separating rope, Clint Barton silently cursed to himself.  Why, of all years, did that red-head have to go and volunteer the year he was chosen to represent his school?  The male chapter of the training academy always picked a boy to volunteer before the actual reaping, and Clint had been ecstatic to be chosen.  He finally had a chance to prove what he was worth.  But he had seen the girl before in some hand-to-hand combat classes, and she was scary.  Once, a substitute instructor insulted her because he didn’t think she belonged in a training class with boys.  No one has seen him since.  Hopefully, he could get her to team up with him and then get someone else to kill her off.  Or stick an arrow in her back when she wasn’t looking.  Yeah, who was he kidding?  He was the best trained assassin in a school of trained assassins.  He could totally win this.  As the capitol man read off the name of some spoiled brat, he raised his hand with a cocky smirk, “I volunteer as tribute.”

          Clint joined the girl and capitol presenter on the central platform to the cheers of his fellow classmates and instructors.  With a quick note of, “Happy Hunger Games,” and “May the odds be ever in your favor,” the man at the podium stepped back to allow Clint to be led off in the direction of a nearby tent.  Here was his chance to say his supposed last words to those closest to him.  A few of the boys from the academy came to wish him good luck, but Clint didn’t really care.  The rest of his family had been killed in a car accident when he was six, and the boys from the school didn’t really count as friends.  Friends wouldn’t try to kill you in your sleep if they thought it would get them a better ranking on the annual school report.  Friends didn’t poison your food to try to take your spot in going to the arena.  Clint didn’t mind, he understood their motivations.  Life was just like games; every man for himself. 

* * *

          Over in District Three, a shell-shocked Tony Stark followed the peacekeepers into his assigned waiting room.  He could not believe that out of all the other names in the bowl, his had been chosen.  Before the reaping, he had calculated the odds of him getting chosen as a tribute, and had scoffed to Dum-E that the probability of him getting chosen was so low that the bot had more to fear than he did.  Apparently his math had been in error, or more likely, the odds were simply not in his favor.  Tony kicked his legs against the back of the chair he was sitting in, wondering how long it would be until he got transported to the Capitol.  He wasn’t expecting any visitors.  Staying cooped up in the lab all day had alienated him from other children, and both his parents were dead.  Tony decided he wouldn’t mind saying good-bye to Dum-E, but really doubted the peacekeepers would allow an unregistered robot into the room of a future tribute, no, a current tribute.  Closing his eyes as if he could pretend the day was just a horrible dream, Tony settled into a comfortable position when he heard the door slide open. 

          Jarvis, the family butler, walked into the room and enveloped Tony in a hug before he could even get a word out.  “I’m so sorry, sir,” the older man said, and if Tony was being honest with himself, he might have just cried a bit as the reality of the situation hit him.  He was never going to finish his robot suit designs, never get to build the artificial intelligence he had based on the man now comforting him.  He was never going to become the world’s greatest inventor, or see Jarvis again if he didn’t kill the other twenty-three children in the arena.  Feeling the world he knew shatter in seconds, Tony held on until Jarvis pulled away, taking a data chip out of his back pocket.  “Now I know some tributes like to wear a token of their family in the arena,” he said solemnly, “But this is a recording your father gave to me in case he died and we somehow came into this very situation.  Tony stiffened at the reference to his father, but Jarvis continued unawares, “I haven’t seen it myself, being told it was for your eyes only, and I can only hope that it will offer you some solace before the trial that awaits you.”  Both stopped to turn as the door opened, signaling that their time was up.  Glancing back, Jarvis gave him one last hug with a whispered “Good Luck,” and then Tony was alone with the peacekeepers.

* * *

 

           District Two had an interesting system with career tributes.  The training schools were even more selective than District One when picking who they taught, and there wasn’t always a career ready to volunteer each year as a result.  Thor had heard a rumor going around that Fandal had been chosen to be the male tribute this year, but had no idea who the female career would be.  He hoped someone with a strong will and good heart would step up to represent their district in the games.  Heimdall accompanied Thor and Sif as they made their way towards the already long line extending from the registration booth.  Before leaving to join the other victors, he grasped both of their arms and said, “I sense a great disturbance may soon be upon us.  Beware the trickery of appearances in deciding which path to take.”  Looking to see them nodding in confused agreement, Heimdall finished with the customary farewell, “And may the odds be ever in your favor."

          Thor moved through registration in a blur, thoughts still jumbled from the strange interaction with Heimdall.  Meeting the eyes of Sif across the square, he could tell from her furrowed brow that she could not make sense of it either.  Why would he not be able to trust his eyes?  His physician’s report proved that he had perfect vision.  As the capitol speaker took to the podium, Thor pushed the disconcerting thoughts from his mind, but could not shake the sense of foreboding that accompanied Heimdall’s words.

          “Welcome, District Two citizens, to the reaping of the 74th Annual Hunger Games!”  Raucous cheers resounded throughout the square.  Thor felt his face break into a grin at the pride his people obviously took in their tributes.  The energy in the air was almost tangible as the capitol speaker began the customary recounting of their history.  “One time long ago, our districts each existed as separate planets in a galaxy constantly plunged into chaos.  Thanos saw the pain wrought by this unrest, and established the Marvel Federation of Districts to bring peace and order to the world.”  Some clapped at this statement before the speaker continued, “But District Thirteen was not happy with the cost of coexistence, and used violence as a vehicle for revenge against the very man that had given them a better life.”  Boos could be heard as the crowd scowled and wagged heads at the actions of these people.  “But Thanos was not to be overthrown so easily.  When the people of District Thirteen refused to back down, he was forced to take action.  With a heavy heart, he destroyed their planet to insure the safety of the rest of Marvel.”  A clip played on the screen behind the stage to show a planet exploding.  “We take tributes to participate in the Hunger Games each year, to remind our citizens of the chaos before the federation, and the districts of the horrible consequences produced by violence and war.”  The static image of the Marvel logo filled the screen as the capitol speaker looked around to see if the message had sunk in.  Satisfied, he smiled, “And now, on to the tributes!”

          Hand ruffling through the bowl of girls’ names, he pulled out a paper slip.  Pausing for dramatic effect, the man called, “The female tribute of District Two will be…Sif!”  “NO!” Thor bellowed as Sif made her way to the stage.  Surely there would be a volunteer.  Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he spun, hearing the muted claps and cheers of the rest of the district.  He waited for anyone to raise a hand, but nobody made a move towards the stage.  Head reeling, Thor barely noticed the capitol man pull out another slip of paper for the male tribute.  Not even waiting for him to finish saying the other boy’s name, Thor yelled, “I volunteer as tribute!”

          If he hadn’t gotten their attention before, he certainly had it now.  The crowd gaped as he ran to the stage beside Sif, telling the speaker again in case he hadn’t heard him, “I volunteer as tribute.”  Cameras flashed as Sif and Thor stared at each other in horror.  Looking out at the crowd, Thor could see Fandal with his friends Hogun and Volstagg glowering at him.  On his left, he could hear Heimdall sigh in defeat from the victors’ area.  Looking away, he faced the stands to find his father’s disappointed gaze zeroed in on him.

          Following the peacekeepers to the designated greeting area, Thor waited for his family to be brought in. When the door finally opened, he met his father’s gaze with a determination he didn’t quite feel.  Odin stared back for a couple minutes before his shoulders seemed to crumple, “Why don’t you listen to my words?  There is no glory in the games.  Death and destruction await all those who enter that ghastly arena.” 

          Thor retorted in frustration, “I do not desire fame father.”  At Odin’s confused look, Thor continued, “When the name of Sif appeared from the reaping bowl, my head could not construct a thought.  All I knew was that I could not let my warrior in arms fight this battle alone.” 

          Odin nodded in acceptance, replying with a grim smile, “But this isn’t just a battle Thor.  Only one of you can come out alive.”

* * *

 

          Bruce Banner didn’t even bother to get changed before plodding towards the central hub of District Five.  He didn’t care if the whole capitol fainted from the sight of his grease-stained overalls and light shirt.  The government had already hurt his family enough.  He wasn’t going to play along to their games.

         Soon enough, he reached the hub and got in line with the rest of the children waiting to be reaped.  He ended up standing behind Betty Ross, the daughter of the head peacekeeper for their district.  Looking down at his dirty clothes, Bruce severely regretted his decision to leave his best outfit at home.  He stared as his shoes, wishing he could disappear into the ground beneath them.  Preoccupied with his desire to vanish, Bruce didn’t notice someone talking to him until he felt a hand tap his shoulder.  Bruce looked up to see Betty smiling at him.  “Hey, what’s so interesting down there?  Are you nervous?” 

          Bruce rubbed his neck and felt a flush creep up his cheeks as he replied, “Oh nothing, just thinking about…”  Bruce stopped for a second.  What was cool to think about?  “About…” He tried to covertly look around, eyes getting caught on the pin holding back Betty’s hair.  “About daisies,” and promptly kicked himself for his inability to actually converse with other people. 

          “Daisies?” Betty replied with a laugh.  Bruce wanted to just die right there, no hunger games required.  Before he got a chance to try to cover up his error, the line was moving forward and Betty had to go sign up.  Bruce thought he heard her mumble “Daisies” before chuckling to herself again.  Gazing at her retreating back, Bruce could feel a grin almost turn the corners of his mouth up past his nose.  Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

          Not concerned about the ceremony, Bruce stood and waited as children around him wrung their hands and whispered assurances to each other.  Before long, a woman from the capitol had arrived to deliver the annual speech for, wait for it, the 74th time.  Uninterested, Bruce barely registered the name “Jane Foster” as the female tribute for their district made her way to the stage.  Judging by the amount of crying that was still going on, she had been fairly popular amongst the other children.  Bruce scowled at the hard truth that the games would be taking away another innocent person’s life.  It was with this expression that the camera found him when the speaker called out, “Bruce Banner.”

          Stunned, Bruce froze in his spot.  This couldn’t be happening.  His dad had already been to the arena, and they never reaped tribute’s kids.  It just didn’t happen.  Looking around, Bruce didn’t know who was more shocked, him or the rest of the district. Nobody moved.  Silence stretched across the square, so complete that a single intake of air would have sounded like a scream.  The speaker repeated, “Bruce Banner, please come to the stage,” and his legs started to move.

          Still numb from shock, Bruce waited in the room set aside for tributes to say goodbye to their family.  The visit from his father was as bad as he thought it would be, not expecting the circumstances to change the status of their relationship.  Bruce tried to ignore the drunken ramblings his father spat out as he paced around the small room, wondering if the arena would reduce him to a similar babbling mess.  Distracted by his thoughts, he failed to evade the reaching hands of his father when he grasped his shoulders.  Staring at Bruce with haunted eyes, he whispered, “He made me a monster Bruce, and now he’s going to get you too!”  Body shaking with what Bruce guessed to be either fear or anger, he collapsed on the floor before being dragged from the room.

          Shuddering from the close encounter, Bruce gratefully let his mother tuck her arms around him as she came into the room.  After softly crying into his shoulder for a couple minutes, she stood back and held out her hand.  “Betty asked me to give this to you,” she said with a watery smile.  Bruce looked down to see the same daisy pin that he had just commented on this morning.  How long ago that seemed now.  With one last hug, his mom choked out, “Come back to us Bruce,” leaving the daisy pin in his hand. 


	3. To The Capitol

          Clint followed his armed escorts to the shuttle bay that held his ticket to the capitol.  Eyes falling on the lone ship in the hanger, he let out a wolf whistle at its shiny exterior.  The capitol sure knew how to ride in style.  The space craft showed off a sleek black exterior with curved wings reminiscent of a bird in flight.  Excited to leave the planet for the first time in his life, Clint bounded up the stairs leading to the ship’s interior.

          Walking into the first room, Clint couldn’t help but be a little impressed.  Even with growing up in the luxury district, he had never seen such a lavish apartment, especially for some type of transportation.  On his left, a huge viewing screen took up the majority of the wall, with black leather couches strategically placed around for the best viewing.  To his right, a long mahogany dining table sat piled high with platters of food that looked like they could feed a small army.  The whole area was enveloped in an atmosphere of entitlement, like a glimpse of what could be given to the victor of the arena.  Clint almost laughed to himself.  As if promise of life and eternal glory weren’t already enough motivation to win.  Before he could explore the shuttle any further, Clint tensed as he was overwhelmed with the sense of being watched.  Turning around, he came face to face with his fellow tribute from District One.  The girl almost slouched with an indifferent stance that surprised him until he looked at her face.  Nobody could mistake her purpose if they saw the intense calculating gaze she was currently directing around the room.  Even as she slipped past him into the shuttle, he could feel her eyes analyzing him.  Moving away from the ship’s entrance, Clint tried to catch her at it, but every time he looked in her direction she would be occupied with something else.

          Over the next couple minutes the shuttle’s crew filed past them until the Captain called over the intercom, “Departure in five minutes.  Please proceed to appropriate seating for take-off.”  Clint joined the other girl at the far wall, fastening himself into one of the metal chairs protruding out of it.  Stomach rolling in anticipation, he asked her, “Ever been in space before?” Looking back at him, the red head shook her head.  “Me neither,” Clint admitted, noticing her knuckles had turned white from gripping the chair.  The lights dimmed as the sound of the ship’s engines began to fill the room.  Looking over again to see his own panic reflected in the girl’s eyes, he offered a hand, “Clint Barton.”  Shaking it, the girl replied, “Natasha Romanov.”

          After experiencing a couple minutes of weightlessness during the ship’s launch, the lights came back on to signal that gravity had been restored and they were free to move around the cabin.  As they unclicked their harnesses, a man in a black suit climbed down the ladder leading to the rest of the shuttle.  He greeted them each with a surprisingly firm hand shake.  “Phil Coulson, victor of the 68th hunger games.  I’ll be acting as your mentor.” 

          The two nodded.  Natasha wasted no time on pleasantries, asking, “When do we start training?”  

          Mouth twitching into what could have been approval, Coulson replied, “Given the fact that you have both already received years of preparation, I thought it would be best to watch the other reapings first and work out your strategies based on the competition this year.” 

          Nodding his consent, Clint agreed, “Sounds like a good idea to me.” 

          The two tributes settled down on the sofas as Coulson switched on the view screen.  They skipped past their own event to watch a boy in District Two break down at the selection of the female tribute, volunteering after screaming the girl’s name.  Kind of horrified at the chaos that broke out across the square, Clint asked, “Who is that?” 

          Coulson answered, “Thor Odinson.  He’s the son of District Two’s mayor, that’s what the pandemonium is about.  The girl is called Sif.  I believe that she lives with him, sort of like an adopted sister.” 

          A smile breaking his face, Clint made a fist pump, “So neither of them are careers?  Sweet!” 

          “But look at his arms,” Natasha pointed out, “He probably is apprenticed as a blacksmith.  That kind of physical labor on a daily basis could make him lethal with the right weapon.”

          Clint scowled, “Oh yeah.  So he’ll be used to swinging a hammer around.  Great.” 

          The coverage continued to District Three, revealing the tributes to be a pale, skinny boy and a dark-haired girl that each looked like they were frozen with shock.  The crowd made no significant reaction, but Clint could hear the small intake of breath Coulson made as the name of the male tribute was displayed.  Confused at his reaction, Clint asked, “What’s the deal with Anthony Stark?” 

          Face impassive, Coulson replied, “Anthony is the son of Howard Stark, who was the head of District Three’s weapon manufacturing plant until his recent death.  He’s a child prodigy.  He built his first circuit board at the age of four, and has done even more since.  You both should keep an eye on him.  The kid’s a genius.” 

          Having no reply to that, Clint focused on the next tributes coming up on the screen.  The names Virginia Potts and James Rhodes scrolled under the image of two teens that he could tell were trying hard not to look terrified.  Nobody commented on the amount of crying that was coming from the other children lined up.  District Five seemed to be going the same way, until the announced pulled the name “Bruce Banner” out of the bowl.  The square was so silent, that Clint thought Coulson had muted the recording until the announcer started to speak again.  The rest of the people looked more stunned than the tribute himself.  Before Clint could even ask about the crowd’s weird reaction, Natasha questioned Coulson, “Is he the son of Brian Banner?” 

          Coulson let out a revealing sigh, confirming, “Yes he is.”  Natasha grimaced, looking as though she felt sorry for the boy that was now expressionlessly staring back at the quiet square. 

          “Wait a minute,” Clint interrupted, “Are we talking about the Brian Banner that went crazy after winning the 61st hunger games?” 

          Nodding, Natasha hesitantly added, “There are…rumors that he didn’t make the best home life for his family.  Unlike the other victors, he’s hardly ever seen in public, and never with his wife or child.”  Feeling sick at the implications of her statement, Clint didn’t pay attention to the next couple segments.

          He came out of his ruminations to see one of the tributes from District Eight step up to the podium confidently.  As the camera zoomed in on the boy’s smiling face, the name Loki Odinson scrolled across the bottom.  Confused, Clint blinked to make sure he was reading the words correctly.  Catching Natasha’s baffled gaze, he pointed out, “Wasn’t the tribute from District Two called Odinson?” 

          Coulson was staring at the boy with a similar look of puzzlement.  Pausing the recording, he said, “I need to make a couple calls.  Wait here,” leaving Clint and Natasha alone in the room. 

          After a few awkward moments of silence, Clint asked, “So, what do you think’s up with Eight?  Is it possible they just have the same name?” 

          Natasha bit her lip, thinking a second before replying, “I don’t know.  If he had the same name as you or me, it wouldn’t be such a big deal.  But in some cultures, the name ‘Odinson’ literally means ‘son of Odin.’  I think it’d be a weird coincidence for two tributes in the same hunger games to share such a unique last name.” 

          Clint nodded in agreement.  “But let’s just say they are related.  How would he get all the way from District Two to Eight?  There are literally five planets plus the space between them separating those districts.”  Before they could ponder the strange situation further, Coulson returned to continue watching the reapings.  Impatiently, Clint inquired, “So are they related?” 

          Looking unsure even as he spoke, Coulson answered, “As far as we can tell, Loki Odinson is Thor’s brother.”

          “But how,“ Natasha challenged, “is that –“

          “WHAT – “ Clint exploded,

         “Please,” Coulson held up a hand, “let me explain what I know.”  Pausing to make sure they were both listening, Coulson explained, “After having a friend of mine look into the districts’ database of information on federation citizens, I found official documentation for the adoption of Loki by Odin Borson dated about fifteen years ago.”  Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I also found a certificate declaring Loki dead from last year.”  The two tributes gaped at him as the information sunk in. 

          “But he’s standing right there!” Clint argued, “How can that possibly be him?” 

          Rubbing his eyes, Coulson wearily replied, “I don’t know, and for your purposes it doesn’t really matter.  Forget about the drama.  Parentage isn’t going to make a difference in the arena.”

          Feeling as though he had just been scolded, Clint returned his focus to the screen as Coulson pushed play on the remote.  The tributes from District Nine, Mary Jane and Peter Parker, made no significant impression as the now similar sound of people crying followed them up to the podium.  Clint didn’t even bother to read the name of District Ten’s female tribute; the girl looked so young that he wondered how she was old enough to reaped.  The boy beside her, Sam Wilson, stood out in contrast to the dismal faces and buildings surrounding him with a stance that radiated confidence.  Clint made a note to watch out for him.  District Eleven had twins as tributes, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff.  Clint couldn’t help but let out an exasperated cry, “Are practically all the tributes going to be related this year?”  Neither Natasha nor Coulson responded to his comment, but he was pretty sure they were considering similar thoughts based on their faces’ expressions.  Continuing to analyze the competition, Clint decided he would definitely be avoiding the girl from District Twelve after seeing the furious glare she had aimed at the peacekeepers around her.  Then the final name was called, and silent pandemonium broke out on screen.

          The boy, named “Steve Rogers” by the capitol speaker, looked as if he was on the verge of death.  He was so malnourished that his shirt billowed around his bony frame.  His skin was a sickly pale color, and it looked like the walk up to the stage was going to give him an asthma attack.  The same horror Clint felt was displayed across every person’s face there.  He knew he was a trained killer, but there was no satisfaction to be gained from hurting a kid that was obviously defenseless.  Before the peacekeepers could lead the tributes away, an old man in the crowd pressed his fingers to his lips and raised them in the air.  The rest of the crowd followed suit, voicing their sympathies in silent unison. The video cut out as a peacekeeper made his way towards the first man to raise his arm.  Shocked again, Clint was cut off by Coulson stating, “Well that’s that.  I hope you took some notes.  I’ll work with you more once we get to the capitol.”  Beating a hasty retreat up the ladder he came from, Clint wondered if Coulson had been affected by the final tribute’s reception too.  Left alone in the cabin again, this time Natasha caught his gaze. “It’s certainly going to be an interesting game this year.”


	4. Arrival

          Steve pressed his nose up against the ship’s window, trying to get a better look at the planet they were now descending towards.  The capitol was nothing like he had ever seen.  There was color everywhere, from the buildings and plants to the people themselves.  The skins of men and women were covered in all different shades, that when coupled with their shiny outfits and hair created the illusion of a sparkling rainbow.  As they neared the landing strip, Steve waved to the mob of people that had gathered there with a shy smile.  Hearing the responding screams, Peggy walked over and demanded, “What are you doing?” 

          Before Steve could stop to reply, Bucky answered, “He’s getting sponsors, sweetheart.  If you want any help in that arena, I would start doing the same thing.” 

          Scowling back at their mentor, Peggy stomped back to the other side of the shuttle’s cabin.  Steve turned to give Bucky a disappointed glance, “There’s no need to be mean Bucky.  I was just trying to be polite.”  Without waiting for his friend to give a response, he followed the other tribute’s footsteps, leaving Bucky alone by the window.

          Finding Peggy almost vibrating with anger in the corner of the room, Steve called out, “Hey, I’m sorry about Bucky.  He can be a bit harsh sometimes.”  When Peggy didn’t turn around to acknowledge him, Steve continued, “I wasn’t trying to gain any sponsors.  I was just excited to see the capitol.  I didn’t know what to do when all the people started waving at me.”  When Peggy still didn’t face him, Steve let out in frustration, “Look, I know that we aren’t in the best situation right now, but I don’t see why we can’t at least try to get along.” 

          “Get along?” Peggy asked, voice dangerously low.  “You want us to get along?”  She suddenly whirled on him, finger pointing at his scrawny chest, “Where have you been, Rogers?  Do you think this is just a game?  We are tributes in the hunger games.  There’s no point in making friends here.  No matter who we are or what we do, they are going to drop us in the arena next week and it will be every person for themselves.  Don’t think that being nice will make me hesitate one second when the time comes to slash your throat with a knife.”  Finished with her speech, Peggy glared daggers as if challenging him to contradict her.  Face first pinching in anger, Steve looked about to shout something right back at her.  But before any words left his mouth, he seemed to think better of his reproach and took a deep calming breath. 

          Letting his hands drop in the sign of defeat, Steve agreed. “I know, Peggy.  I know.”  When she raised an eyebrow in question, Steve grimly explained, “Peggy, we both know I’m not going to survive the hunger games.  I barely made it to the podium without having an asthma attack.”  Releasing a self-deprecating chuckle, Steve continued as some of the tension seeped out of Peggy’s body, “I’ve accepted the fact that I’m going to die.  It’s not as if it wasn’t likely already with the amount of times I’ve been sick.” 

          Delicate brows furrowed in confusion, Peggy questioned, “But don’t you want to live?” 

         “Sure,” Steve replied, “But so does every other boy and girl in our district.  It’s better that I was chosen so that someone healthier than me gets a chance at a full life.”  Pausing to look up at the ceiling and blink a couple times, Steve admitted, “It hurts so bad to know that I’ll never see my mother again.  But I talked to Bucky after I was reaped and he promised to look after her when I’m gone.” 

          Eyes now suspiciously bright, Peggy commented, “I know how you feel.  I have both my parents waiting at home too.”  Coming back to herself after a second, she challenged, “But you can’t give up.  That’s not how the games work.” 

          Steve actually laughed this time before responding, “I don’t care how the games work.  I care about people.”  Seeing Peggy’s skeptical expression, he elaborated, “I’m sick of watching the careers slaughter children for fun and get heralded at the capitol as heroes.  I know that I’m not strong enough to make a difference on my own, but I can definitely help the people that are.”  Ducking his head to hide his blush, he mumbled, “People like you.” 

          Not hearing his last comment, Peggy scowled, “Steve you can’t just sacrifice yourself-“

          “But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my last couple days of freedom,” Steve interrupted with a grin, “I’d actually say I’m pretty lucky.  I get to visit the capitol, eat good food, and sleep in a warm bed for the first time in months.” 

          Peggy protested, “But Steve-“

          “Let’s not play pretend,” Steve stated firmly, “We both know I’m going to die.  We also know that you’re a pretty swell gal.  Therefore, it only makes sense to pool our resources and give you the best chance of going home.”  Peggy went to argue again, but stopped when Steve held up a hand.  “Let’s not lie to each other.  It’ll only make things more unpleasant.”  After a moment of silence Peggy made no move to agree.  Sighing, Steve asked again in a less demanding tone, “Only the truth from here on out.  Okay?” 

           Keeping her eyes locked on his for another long pause, Peggy exhaled, “Okay.”

          Soon enough, they were touching the ground and being ushered into a silver vehicle with tinted windows.  Armed peacekeepers had to literally beat people back so that they were able to get in.  Some of the capitol fans already had posters with their heads on them.  Steve was so overwhelmed that he barely registered the car starting.  Looking across the back seat, he could tell that Peggy was also affected by the capitol’s reaction to them.  Bucky, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease like he experienced this kind of treatment on a daily basis.  Noticing their uncomfortable positions, he whispered through his own fake grin, “Smile and wave to the people like the happy children I know you are.”  After a moment’s hesitation, Peggy and Steve listened to his advice, each waving enthusiastically to the crowds lined up along the streets.  Steve was repulsed by the obvious entertainment these people were getting from seeing them paraded around like pigs for slaughter.  He wanted to scream, just to see their reactions, but held in his despise for the sake of the girl sitting next to him.  More smiles meant more sponsors, and more sponsors meant a better chance for Peggy.  Still, Steve was glad that he could stop smiling when the trip was finally over.

          Walking into the training center, Steve was struck by the obscene amount of wealth the capitol seemed to take for granted.  The lobby was a blend of modern technology and vintage flair, with crystal chandeliers accompanying state of the art elevators and lights.  But before he could go explore, their group was met by a stylish man in a crisp navy suit.  “Welcome to the training center,” he said with a smile.  “Now since you’re from District Twelve, you’ll be staying on the twelfth floor of the building.”  Leaning down to whisper behind his hand, he said, “And in my opinion, you got the best quarters!  Believe me, the view up there is absolutely stunning.”  Standing up again, he motioned for one of the women in grey work clothes to come over.  “If you need anything at all, just ask someone dressed in this outfit and they’ll help you.”  Pushing away the woman, he finished his introduction by handing Bucky an information packet, “Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"


	5. A Clip of Importance

 

          Tony stepped past a sliding metal door to enter the rooms set aside for his district in the training center.  The sitting and dining areas appeared similar to the previous shuttle’s cabin, only larger, with the addition of a hallway leading to separate bedrooms for the tributes and their team.  Normally he would appreciate the chance to look out the ceiling-high windows covering the apartment’s left side, but couldn’t bring himself to care after watching the other reapings.  The majority of tributes had looked positively lethal.  Sure, they were smiling and crying now, but he knew they would all be down to business once the games began.  How was he supposed to compete with Mr. and Mrs. Muscles from District Two, or the trained assassins of District One?  Even the tributes from the less wealthy districts appeared to be more athletic and confident.  The only tribute skinnier than him was the boy from District Twelve, which wasn’t that reassuring considering that made Tony one step up from death on the metaphorical food chain. 

          He envied his fellow tribute, Darcy Lewis, who had accepted her fate with a nonchalance that Tony wished he could emulate.  She actually seemed to enjoy the shuttle ride, taking advantage of all the sweets left out on the table and surfing through the view screen channels.  In contrast, Tony silently had a panic attack and didn’t move from one corner the entire ride.  Once they hit the ground, Darcy smiled and pointed out all the landmarks they passed in the car, while Tony scowled at anyone who dared to make eye contact.  Her comments were a little weird, ranging from the normal enthusiastic, “Look, there’s a monument of President Thanos!”  to “Whoa, did you see that woman’s two-headed dog?  I am totally getting one of them if I win,” but he could tell that her quirky personality would be chalked up as unique and adorable by the capitol.  She was currently having a chat with one of the Avoxes about their uniforms and work hours, which on second thought, wasn’t even possible because Avoxes couldn’t speak.  Shaking his head, Tony walked towards the hallway that ran away from the main area.  Only Darcy could maintain a conversation with a person that couldn’t talk back.

          Sliding open the door to his room, Tony wondered if he was ever going to stop being impressed by the capitol’s accommodations.  He had previously thought that he was living at the height of luxury as the son of his district’s most successful entrepreneur, but apparently needed to reevaluate his assumptions based on what he had seen in the last couple hours.  A huge bed was pushed against the right wall, with modern chairs and plants adorning the space around it.  Off to the other side, an open entryway led to a spacious bathroom containing a clear glass shower, tub, and sink.  The far wall was taken up by a large viewing screen that dominated the room from its sheer size. 

          Trying to refocus on developing a viable strategy for the arena, Tony started to pace around the enclosed space.  His mentor, Obadiah Stane, had been no help so far, doling out compliments left and right without actually offering any advice.  For some reason, he was convinced that Tony would win based on his mental prowess alone, which taking his physical shape into consideration, was just plain idiotic.  Tony knew he could protect himself with the right materials, but getting those materials was where he ran into a problem.  Anything and everything he might need would be at the center of the cornucopia, and he had watched enough games reruns to know he did not want to get involved in that bloodbath.  But leaving the parts also meant leaving himself defenseless, with no previous combat training or survival skills.  Whether it happened quickly or slowly, all his ideas ultimately resulted in his death.

          Kicking the wall in frustration, Tony heard something clatter to the floor.  Looking down at his feet, he saw the data chip Jarvis had given him the previous day.  Jarvis.  What he would give to be able to talk to the old man now.  Staring at the small chip, Tony wondered if there was actually an ounce of helpful information on it.  Why would his father take the time to make him a video for after his death, when he barely took a second to acknowledge Tony’s existence during his life?  Grabbing the piece off the floor, Tony paused, unsure of what to do.  After a couple moments, his curiosity won out over his fear of the data chip’s contents.  Walking over to the port attached to the wall screen, Tony inserted the chip and flopped back on the bed to see what his deceased father had to say.

          The wall screen flickered to life, displaying what Tony recognized to be his father’s lab.  Hearing the soft hum of machines in the background, Tony felt his stomach clench in response to the sound he associated with his home.  Already tense, he sat bolt upright the minute his father walked onto the screen.  Howard Stark was obviously in his element, holding a soldering iron in one hand and a blow torch in the other.  Setting down his tools, Stark grinned at the camera, “Hey kid, how’re you doing?”

          Before he could even say another word, Tony had violently stopped the recording and shakily retreated to the other side of the room.  Who was that man, and what had he done with his father?  The person on the screen certainly resembled the man he remembered, but that was where the similarities ended.  Tony’s father would never be that casual when speaking to him, always addressing him in formal tones if he bothered to talk to him at all.  The man never smiled, never joked, and never cared enough to ask him how he was doing.  The only attention he received was through criticisms and grade reports on the projects he completed at home in lieu of studying at a school where he already knew more than the teachers.  Taking deep breaths, Tony calmed down and wondered why Jarvis would give him a false recording.  It was a sick move, after he had already been reaped for the hunger games.  Still, the old man had sounded sincere when handing over the chip.  Jarvis was the only person Tony trusted, and he didn’t believe he was capable of creating a mock video of his father.  Deciding he had nothing to lose by continuing, Tony reached back over to press play.   

          “I hope you’re okay, because I know things must be getting pretty bad if you’re watching this,” his father said with a grimace.  “First things first, I should explain to you what this video is about.  You see, a lot of people are starting to be less than satisfied with our current form of government.  Specifically, the annual institution of the hunger games.”  Rubbing the back of his neck, Stark continued, “I know that we’re lucky to be well off enough that we won’t have to put your name in extra times at the reaping, but I just can’t stand to think of you having to go into those games.”  Face twisting away in a mixture of disgust and grief, “It’s a sick game, meant to intimidate the districts into obedience so that nobody complains about the vast number of people living below poverty level.”  Sighing, he continued, “What kind of man would I be if I just stood by and watched other children be taken from their families to be murdered?  How can I condone the amount of suffering right around us in the district?”  Turning back to stare straight into the camera, “What I’m trying to say kid, is that there’s a resistance brewing.  And I’m a part of it.”

          For the second time, Tony paused the recording and retreated back away from the view screen.  A resistance?  Could this actually be true?  Breath hitching, Tony panicked.  What if this was some sort of test they put the tributes through before the games, deciding which to give a hard time in the arena?  Faltering for a second, Tony froze before sighing in relief.  Jarvis wouldn’t trick him like that.  Anybody else, and he wouldn’t believe it for a second, but if Jarvis had it, there was a good chance it was really true.  Moving to play more of the tape, Tony stopped when he remembered where he was.  What if someone else could see the video?  Furtively scanning the room, Tony breathed again once he was sure the door was shut.  Hand shaking, he turned the volume down and unpaused the clip.

          “There’s another secret behind all this.  One even the most elite citizens don’t know.”  His father looked around before getting closed to the camera and whispering, “District Thirteen still exists.”  Checking behind him again, Stark explained, “The Capitol always shows the recording of Thanos destroying District Thirteen’s planet.  But they never show the gigantic space ship half of the population escaped on. If you watch the recording really closely, you can see the edge of its hull in the upper left hand corner of the frame.”  Eyes glowing with excitement, he gushed, “It’s called the Helicarrier.  I haven’t seen it yet, but the specs look incredible.  It’s truly a beautiful piece of engineering.”  Regaining a more serious look, Stark remarked, “But that’s beside the point.  The important fact is that the resistance has been in contact with them, and we think that together over time we’ll be able to stage a full-scale rebellion.”  Shoulders slumping, he continued, “But it’s incredibly dangerous, and I don’t want to involve you in this.  This is my decision, not yours, and you deserve the chance to make your own choices in life.  I can’t grant you absolute immunity, but I’m hoping if I appear utterly indifferent to you and your life, Thanos will let you live if we’re discovered.  That’s where these recordings come in.  I’m going to make one every month, so that I can tell you everything I wish I could in person.  Jarvis, my good man, promised to give them to you if I die and he can’t protect you anymore.”  Eyes tearing up, Stark appeared to struggle for a moment.  Eventually just letting the tears fall down his face, he choked out, “I love you so much Tony.  You probably don’t know now, with all the damn posturing I have to do to keep you safe.  But I promise you this: you were, are, and always will be, my greatest invention.”  Fist slamming on the table, his voice cut through the video feed like steel, “You are the reason we’re doing this.  You and all the other children born into this corrupt universe.  Thanos has tortured us long enough, and it is time to give our descendants a chance to live the lives they deserve.”  A door slammed in the background, startling Stark out of his rant.  Looking over his shoulder, the man quickly whispered, “Sorry kid, I’ve got to go.  If you click next, it should go to the next recording.”  The screen turned black.

          Wiping at his face, Tony was surprised to have his hands come back wet.  All this time he had despised his father for being so uncaring, only to discover now that the opposite was true.  How could he have not seen through the ruse?  His father’s words matched up with all the inconsistencies in their relationship that seemed so obvious in hindsight.  Never asking for anything at Christmas but receiving exactly what he wanted; getting assigned projects he had dreamed of completing without ever talking about his ideas; spending hours on extensive grade reports that must have taken even longer to write up.  It was all there.  He had always assumed his father didn’t want anything to do with him, when the exact opposite was true.

          Interrupting his thoughts, the entrance to his room slid open to reveal Obadiah Stane poking his head in.  Attempting to pull off a relaxed grin, Tony thanked every god in the universe that the view screen behind him was currently blank.  “Thought I’d let you know that dinner’s in five minutes.  We don’t want to waste the lovely food they’ve prepared us now,” Stane said with a smirk.  “I’ll be right there,” Tony replied, “Just give me one more minute to take advantage of these fluffy pillows.”  Laughing like Tony had made the funniest joke, Stane said, “Okay, just don’t be late,” letting the door slide shut behind him.  Once he was sure he was alone in the room again, Tony retrieved the data chip to finish later.  Suppressing a shiver, he followed Stane out to the dining area.

          Letting the dinner conversation wash over him, Tony’s mind strayed back to all the questions his father had left unanswered.  Was his death really an accident, or was it a punishment for acting as part of the resistance?  Did the resistance still exist?  Was there a chance the districts would finally overthrow the capitol?  Feeling a hand poking his shoulder, Tony snapped back to the table with a mumbled “What?”  Laughing, Darcy responded, “I said, do you like the dinner they prepared for us?”  Nodding, Tony turned his face to his plate.  What was he thinking?  It didn’t matter if there was a resistance or not; he would be dead before the revolution even started.


	6. The Opening Ceremony

          Thor attempted to stand still while his stylists walked around him with various costume pieces to make last minutes adjustments to the garment he would be wearing at tonight’s opening ceremony.  Distracted, he reached out to touch a deep red fabric hanging over the mirror, “This cloth, I like it.”  The male stylist currently measuring his arm paused to look at the material, face taking a contemplative gaze.  After a moment’s pause, he commented, “You know, we can work with that.”

          Multiple waxes, fittings, and touch-up’s later, Thor was finally deemed ready to go to the opening ceremony.  He and Sif were wearing metal armor to represent the finer work produced by their district.  Thor’s outfit also included a cape made from the fabric he had pointed out earlier.  Smiling as Sif strode away from her own beauty crew, he said, “The costume fits you well, my friend.  You shall bring our district many sponsors.”  Rolling her eyes, Sif replied, “As will you, Thor.”

          Unfortunately, their escort had been nervous about arriving on time, and dropped the two tributes off by their chariot one hour before the opening ceremony was scheduled to start.  After a few long minutes of waiting, Thor and Sif began to roam around the other chariots to scope out their competition.  Seeing Sif hit it off with the female tribute from District One, Thor made his way in the opposite direction.  Introducing himself to the other tributes, Thor became more and more depressed as he made his way down the districts.  Whether or not the children appeared dangerous, he felt his heart grow heavy at the thought of killing such kind people for sport.

          Walking towards the chariot for District Eight, Thor stopped and gaped as the male tribute came into his vision.  Dressed in a ruffled black tuxedo that matched the waves in his hair, the boy laughed at something the girl said beside him.  Thor couldn’t breathe.  The tribute looked exactly Loki, his brother, who was killed in a horrible shuttle accident last year.  The boy turned around and froze as he made eye contact with Thor.

          “Loki?” Thor called hesitantly, unsure if he was hallucinating or seeing a ghost. 

          “Thor?” the boy questioned in return, taking a slow step towards him. 

          Confused and on guard, Thor challenged, “Who are you, and what foul trick do you play?” 

          Head tilting in puzzlement, the boy replied, “I play no game.  What trickery do you speak of?” 

          “My brother was declared dead last year!" Thor shouted, "Why do you pretend to be who you are not?” 

          Stance quickly changing from indifferent to affronted, the tribute snarked back, “I imitate no one but myself!  I am Loki!” 

          Hands clenching into fists, Thor cried out, “Cease this nonsense.  My brother is dead!” 

          "Can you not see the truth standing in front of you?"  the boy yelled in return.  Looking to the sky in frustration, he stated angrily, “I assure you, I am quite alive.” 

         Before Thor could start protesting again, the boy continued, “If you will not take my word alone, I can prove it, son of Odin.”  Pausing at the use of his formal name, after a moment’s consideration, Thor nodded for the other tribute to proceed while maintaining a skeptical gaze.  The boy started, “I can summarize your entire life in a mere three statements.  The first being, you are the first born of Frigga and Odin Borson.  Secondly, your apprenticeship to a blacksmith after attending school through your required years of education.  Thirdly, your apparent decision to volunteer as a tribute when Sif was selected to be in the hunger games.” 

          Interrupting, Thor almost growled in frustration, “These facts prove nothing.  Any of this could have been found simply by watching the reaping.” 

          Glaring, the other boy testily stated, “Let me finish.”  Taking a deep breath as if to steel himself, he quickly listed off, “I can tell more if that is what you truly wish.  Your favorite color is red.  Mine is green.  Mother used to joke that we were like a walking Christmas tree.  Heimdall acts such as an older brother would to you, and has an unnatural ability to always know what people are doing.   Odin wanted you to take his place as mayor of District Two.  You love to eat pop tarts.  When we were younger, we would often play pretend in a made-up world we called Asgard.  We acted as the two princes of King Odin, and Heimdall, our babysitter, would act as the land’s guardian.  Sif was a fierce warrior.  You loved to run around with a toy hammer and pretend you were flying.”  Almost smiling, the other tribute admitted, “I would dye my hair with paint and claim that I was a shapeshifter.” 

          Mouth dropping in shock before splitting into a grin, Thor ran at the boy to envelope him in a crushing embrace, “Oh brother, it is you.” 

          Letting go after a few moments, Thor asked, “But how are you still alive?  We thought you dead.” 

          Face quirking into a smirk, Loki replied, “Did you mourn?” 

          Looking devastated, Thor answered, “We all did.  Our father –“

          “Yes, your father was the spark behind my grand escape." Loki sneered.  

          "Loki!" Thor admonished.

           Drawing back from the emotion in Thor's gaze, Loki began to pace in tight circles.  Face tightening into an impassive slate, he explained, "In truth, my plan to run away was a poor decision made in haste.  I only thought of it in the moments immediately following a quarrel I had with Odin.  After discovering a few…facts of importance, I ran to the town’s docking bay.  Angry and foolish, I snuck onto a shuttle that took me to District Eight.  I regretted it the instant I left the planet, but left myself with few options that did not include a way to return.  In order to survive, I made friends with the locals and became a small part of District Eight.  I volunteered for the hunger games in an attempt to redeem myself, and earn the chance to go back home.”  Voice losing its hard edge, he mumbled, “But now I know not if there is a chance for success.”  Shoulders crumbling, he whispered, “I had no idea you would be here brother.  I am sorry.”  

          Gripping Loki's shoulders tightly, Thor replied, “And I am sorry you had to go through such difficult trials.” 

          “You are not at fault for my struggles,” Loki stated, chin jutting out in defiance.   

          Shaking his head, Thor sighed, “But that does keep me from the desire to banish them from your life.”   

          Hearing a horn call the tributes to their chariots, Thor was forced to leave Loki to some last minute costume changes before the event began.  Meeting Sif at their own station, he pulled her aside.  She asked, “Did you find anything of importance in the speech of our fellow tributes?” 

          Nodding, Thor replied, “Sif, I have discovered great knowledge of both joy and sadness.” 

          Frowning in worry, Sif whispered, “What did you find Thor?” 

         Checking around to see that nobody was listening to them, he replied, “My brother, Loki, is here.” 

         Scowling, Sif questioned, “Was he not proclaimed dead the past year?” 

         "He was, but the report was false and he is now alive!” Thor shouted with joy.  Following the hand motions of Sif to lower his voice, Thor continued, “I will tell you the tale later in the silence of our rooms.” 

          Nodding eagerly, Sif smiled, “This is spectacular news!  What grief could it bring?” 

          Mouth stretching to form a thin line, Thor explained, “He comes to the capitol as a tribute, and must enter the arena with us.” 

          A horn blared again, forcing Sif and Thor to leave the conversation for their chariot.  Each district’s tributes were riding in silver Romanesque carts pulled by two white horses.  Thor and Sif waved as the steeds trotted between two massive stands containing thousands of screaming capitol fans.  Looking up to the view screens, Thor noticed that they were getting a lot of camera time in comparison to the other tributes.  Their metal armor stood out against other work-themed outfits, like the fish hats of District Five and the tree costumes of District Seven.  That held, until District Twelve’s tributes literally set themselves on fire.

          A collective gasp rising from the crowd, in one instant every camera turned to focus on the flaming tributes.  The boy and girl looked majestic, hands joined in unison with hot fire lighting up charcoal jumpsuits.  Staring at them on the screen, Thor almost forgot where he was.  While all the other costumes worked to dress up the fact they would all be trying to kill each other in a matter of days, the fire rebelled against it; uncontrollable and undeniably alive.

          Rolling to a stop at the end of the road, Thor looked up at the podium to see President Thanos standing in front of a massive screen projecting the Marvel logo.  After the national anthem played, he began to speak, “Welcome, to the opening ceremony of the 74th Annual Hunger Games!”  Cheers erupted, drowning out any other sound in the air.  Once they had quieted down, he continued, ”The honor is mine in bringing such a joyous event to the capitol.”  Gracing the audience with an obviously fake smile, he explained, ”The games were instated as homage to our past formation, yet as of now I believe them to be an event even greater; an event of discovery.  Where else might we get such a demonstration of the courage and tenacity of our districts?  Victory may bring eternal glory, but in death there is a beauty rivaled by no other.”  Gaze sweeping the tributes in a calculating fashion, he proclaimed, “It lightens my heart to know we all share an accord on this matter.  The bonds of our comrades may be strong, but I know nothing can break our citizen’s loyalty to the Federation of Marvel.  I am proud to say district pride rises above any allegiance of blood.”  Starting to feel sick to his stomach, Thor listened in horror, “I cannot wait to watch how these events unfold, every tribute fighting to earn the eternal achievement of victory in life or death.  May the odds be ever in your favor; happy hunger games.”

          Walking back into the room, Sif fixed Thor with a worried expression.  “What do you think Thanos meant by his speech?  He placed an odd amount of emphasis on the pride in representing your district above all other things.” 

          Exhaling, Thor replied, “As of now I am unsure, but fear he will not approve of our alliance based on family history.  Let us hope the rest of the capitol will not be swayed by his new opinion.” 

          Nodding in worried agreement, Sif continued, “Let us hope.  But for now, you must tell me the tale of this tribute claiming to be Loki.” 

          Grinning, Thor responded, “That is a story I will be glad to share.”    


	7. Training

           Bruce woke up to the sound of knuckles banging on the door to his room.  Grumbling about crazy capitol escorts, he called out, “I’m awake!  You can stop knocking now!” or something to that effect, as he was actually still half-asleep and therefore not in complete control of his vocal chords yet.  Barely avoiding the floor, Bruce stumbled out of bed to get ready.  Slipping into the navy training jumpsuit that had been laid out on a nearby chair, he fumbled out the door to meet whatever horrors the new day would bring.

          Mechanically spooning eggs into his mouth, Bruce tried to give Selvig, his mentor, at least half a smile.  Despite possessing an intelligence that could rival his own, Bruce could tell the man was a big softie deep down.  It came across in the way Selvig talked about preparing for the games.  No matter how clinical the man was in his description of the best strategies to stay alive, he couldn’t help but wince at any mention of killing one of the other tributes.  Bruce felt bad that his victory in some past games had forced him to take part in the horrible event over and over again each year, but at the same time couldn’t stop a surge of anger at his ability to still be kind to other people.  Bruce had always assumed all the victors came out as violent and vindictive as his father, accepting the abuse as a reasonable result of killing that many people.  He grew up hating the capitol for destroying his family; anger at the cards he had been dealt in life by President Thanos.  After meeting Selvig, Bruce didn’t know what to believe.

          Beside him, Jane Foster was nervously poking food around on her plate.  Again, Bruce felt angry at the way the capitol hurt innocent people’s lives through the façade of the hunger games.  The female tribute from his district was obviously scared out of her mind.  She hadn’t lost the look of a deer in the headlights since the morning of the reaping.  Scowling at his plate, he struggled to place much hope on her survival. 

          Soon enough, they were leaving Selvig to take the elevator down to the training room.  Looking across the otherwise empty compartment, Bruce saw Jane close to tears.  Her chin was up in an admirable attempt at appearing strong, but her eyes gave her away.  Catching him staring at her, she whispered, “Bruce, I don’t want to kill anyone.” 

          Understanding the severity in her gaze, he quietly agreed, “Me neither.”  Turning back to watch the floors go past, he squeezed her hand in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.  What could he say? The capitol had been screwing with his life since before his conception, and now it was extending that pain to other people too.  There was nothing right about it, but what could they do?  Thanos held all the power, and the tributes were just pawns in his game of intimidation.  Becoming enraged over the situation had no point, yet Bruce could not shake the anger that had been building since his father’s fist had first connected with his face.

          Stepping onto the training floor, Bruce took a moment to be impressed.  He would have enjoyed spending a couple days examining all the machines and stations present if he did not have to enter the arena in less than a week.  Caught glancing around at all the options, he missed most of the supervisor’s explanations and advice on the stations’ purposes and uses.  He only managed to hear the end, “…and may the odds be ever in your favor.” before the other tributes were moving around the room.

          Noticing a display claiming to demonstrate how to make rudimentary bombs, Bruce decided to spend some quality time learning how to create weapons.  He quickly fell into the familiar movements of piecing together metal and wires.  The steps reminded him of science projects he had done at school, giving him a sense of déjà vu.  Once he was confident he had mastered the process, Bruce continued to create and pull apart bombs while gazing around the center to watch the other tributes train.

          Barton, the boy from District One, had stayed at the bow and arrow station the entire time.  It wasn’t the best tactic to make allies, but watching him hit target after target Bruce decided the boy probably didn’t need to ask other people to join him.  He would have to watch out for him hiding in the arena since the bow would enable him to strike from distance.

          On the next station over, Natasha, the female tribute from the same district, was currently beating her sparring partner to a pulp.  One flip of her red hair, and the man twice her size was left groaning on the ground.  Bruce made a mental note to avoid her at all costs.

          Sif and Thor from District Two were fighting at the center of the area in a marked off ring.  Sif was a blur of kicks and knives, while Thor seemed to fend her off with nothing but a metal hammer.  The other tributes that had come to watch were subtly backing away as their level of skill became apparent, the only exception being a boy he remembered being called Loki.  Bruce looked on in amazement as Loki, who he thought must have an urgent death wish, joined the fray to heighten the speed of fighting even more.  He could no longer distinguish the difference between the three competitors as they circled each other.  The ebb and flow of their strikes and defenses were almost beautiful to watch if you could forget they were only practicing to kill.  A good ten minutes later, Thor misplaced a foot, falling onto Sif who pulled Loki down with them.  They all landed in a heap on the floor, laughing as if fighting in a manner to challenge trained specialists was a way to have fun.  Bruce knocked Natasha down a peg on his priority avoidance list to place the three of them at the top.

          Looking past them to the climbing wall, he saw District Nine’s Peter Parker scaling the climbing wall with a disturbing lack of effort.  He was so fast that he barely seemed to use the handholds, creating an illusion of literally sticking to the wall.  Now Bruce was just starting to wonder if there were any tributes without at least one unnatural skill.

          At the other end of the room, District Three’s boy-genius Stark was focused on building a machine of some sort.  He didn’t look that different from Bruce himself, surrounded by parts as he twisted wires together.  That was, until he shocked himself with a loud yelp.  Gazing across at the boy’s invention, Bruce rolled his eyes.  What did he expect would happen if he was going to leave off all the safety coverings?  Marking him down as crazy, Bruce continued to look around for potential allies.

          The majority of the tributes had gathered around the obstacle course and were taking turns trying to run through it.  Most worked alone with little success, as the rope swings and climbing walls made it difficult to get through without help.  Bruce noticed the only ones to have been successful so far were the Maximoff twins, who worked together throughout the entire course.  Seeing a calculating gaze one of the other girls’ faces, he was surprised to see her round up the rest of the children there and start speaking to them.  Soon enough, everyone had found at least one partner to move with through the obstacles.  Getting a better glimpse of her face at the end, Bruce recognized the girl as Virginia Potts, the tribute from District Four.  He would have to be wary of her affinity for organization and leadership in the future.

          Eyes catching on his fellow tribute, Bruce felt his face relax into a grin.  Jane was happily conversing District Three’s female tribute, Darcy, while moving around the star chart kiosk.  Seeing her wave her hands excitedly about something they figured out, Bruce couldn’t help but think of Betty and her own love of science.  His stomach twisted at the thought of what could have happened to her if she had been chosen as his district’s female tribute instead.  Yet how could he be happy that sweet and innocent Jane had been taken in her place?

          Looking around the room, Bruce quietly raged at the humanity Thanos would be ripping away from the other children to insure his own survival.  Reviewing each tribute in sight, Bruce only got angrier as he imagined having to kill any of them.  Who was he to hurt these people he had only met yesterday?  He had no problem with them; his struggle was with the arena itself.  Bruce wanted to live to see Betty again, to give his mother another hug.  But was he willing to kill other people to survive?  Bruce had seen the toll survival had taken on his father.  He, unlike the other tributes, knew the price of victory.  And he knew it wasn’t worth it.

          Staring at his constructed bombs in disgust, Bruce angrily backed away, looking for any station that didn’t wholly focus on inflicting harm on the other tributes.  Stomping around, he finally stopped at the body disguise center, stocked with paints intended to be used as camouflage.  He was so consumed in his own thoughts that it was more than a couple minutes before he noticed that he was not alone at the station.

          The sickly boy from District Twelve was painting something on the other side of the table.  Walking around to look over his shoulder, Bruce’s breathe caught when he saw what the other tribute was making.  All his tension and anger was swept away in awe for the picture sitting in front of him.  It was the most beautiful piece of artwork he had ever seen in his entire life.  The piece was a portrait that looked down from above on an elderly woman sleeping.  She was lying on a simple cot with a flannel blanket pulled up to her shoulders, safely cocooned in the night’s surrounding darkness.  Her greying hair fell around her face like a halo, completing the look of peace set on her smiling lips.  Caught up in the emotional pull of the painting, Bruce reached out to touch the forehead of the illustrated woman.  Before his fingers reached the paint, a blonde head whipped around in front of him to ask, “What are you doing?”

          Embarrassed at his lack of manners, Bruce blurted out to his own surprise, “I’m sorry, I was just looking at your painting and it reminded me of my mom.”

          Face clearing of tension, the boy replied, “Yeah, that’s my mother in the painting.”

          Stuck staring at the woman’s face again, Bruce murmured, “You must love her very much.”  Tearing his eyes away to return the other tribute’s gaze, he stated, “It’s absolutely stunning.  It looks more like art you’d find in museums or galleries than anything from around here.”

          Appearing downcast at his last words, the boy softly admitted, “I know I should be working on natural disguises for the arena, but I’ve never had supplies this nice before.  I wanted to try them out before it was too late.”

          Anger boiling in him again at the cruelty of the capitol, Bruce answered fiercely, “Well I’m glad you did.  That painting is the best thing that I’ve seen since the reaping.”  Holding out his hand on an afterthought he said, “I’m Bruce by the way.”

          “Steve,” the boy answered with a grin and Bruce almost couldn’t handle how the boy’s hand shook.  Looking closer, he could see deep shadows underlying the boy’s eyes while a light sheen of sweat covered his pale forehead.  Coupled with his gaunt frame, the kid looked like he was already on death’s door.

          Making up an excuse to leave, Bruce knew he had finally decided.  Thinking back to his own reaping, he wondered if he had ever considered any other option.  He couldn’t kill any of the other tributes.  Death was better than letting the games take away his humanity.  As much as it hurt to let go of the hope of seeing Betty and his mother again, Bruce knew he was making the right choice.  He would not be manipulated into fighting good people like Steve and Jane who deserved far more than they were ever going to get.  He would not let himself become a monster. 


	8. Private Training Sessions

 

          Tony fidgeted on the metal bench as he waited for his turn to perform in front of the gamemakers.  Most of the tributes sitting near him looked ready to throw up, so he assumed their nerves weren’t faring any better than his.  The only children that looked completely at ease were the careers from District One, which wasn’t that surprising since they had years of training under their belts.  They probably knew ten different ways to kill him without even standing up.

          As the girl in front of him got called to go in, Tony could feel his stomach drop even more in trepidation.  He had no idea what kind of skill he should demonstrate, or if he should even bother.  Tony was pretty sure that his death was almost a sure fact by now.  After his first night in the capitol, he had started to watch the videos on the data chip Jarvis gave him every night before he went to bed.  Watching his father act like the parent he had always wanted was heart-wrenching, but he understood the necessity of his double life based on the knowledge he shared describing the capitol’s inner-workings.  According to his father, President Thanos had zero tolerance for dissent and ruthlessly destroyed anyone who objected to anything regarding him or the government.  He instituted the hunger games to spread fear throughout the districts, and controlled the reapings to punish rebels through the deaths of their children.  When this was not enough to stop the resistance, he started arranging “accidents.”  Just like the shuttle accident that had killed Tony’s father.

          If the information in the videos was true, the only logical conclusion was that Tony’s name had not been pulled in a case of extremely bad luck, but rather a death order from President Thanos.  This meant he stood absolutely no chance of surviving the games, because if the tributes didn’t kill him, something from the arena would.  Tony lowered his head into his hands, shaking with frustration at his inability to change the situation.  He almost wished that he hadn’t seen the videos, so he could go back to thinking he had a chance to survive. 

          The only consolation from the data chip was that the resistance still appeared to be growing stronger.  On the last tape he recorded, his father had been really excited about contacting District Thirteen’s leader, Nick Fury, to discuss new plans for a revolution.  That meant there was still hope for the rest of the districts.  Hearing an automated voice call, “Anthony Stark,” Tony raised his head.  It was time to meet the gamemakers.   

          Walking into the empty training room, Tony decided he wouldn’t play along with the capitol’s game.  What did he have to lose?  Sitting down on the floor, he stared at the gamemakers’ box.  Lavishly dressed men and women sprawled about in chairs, eating from gigantic platters of food.  The few that could manage to go a couple minutes without stuffing their mouths turned expectant gazes towards him.  Returning their stares, Tony couldn’t decide if he was more disgusted by the people gorging themselves or the ones that found a child’s potential for murder interesting.

          Noticing a shimmer by one of the tables, Tony let out a silent huff of acknowledgment.  There was a force field separating him and his spectators.  His original plan had been passive resistance, but this was just too good of an opportunity to pass up.  Standing up, he walked over to the station that held the spare machine pieces.  During the past week, he had created a mechanical glove for his hand that shot repulsor blasts perfect for taking down a force field.

          Thankfully, this was not his first time building the glove, and in a matter of minutes Tony was clicking the last parts into place around his hand.  Smiling at the box of onlookers, he gave a little wave and blasted the shimmering hole in the force field.

          The wall exploded in a burst of light, conveniently shorting out the rest of the electrical systems and leaving everyone in the dark.  Screaming filled the room as the entire box of gamemakers began to wildly run around like crazed chickens Tony smiled to himself.  That went even better than he’d expected.  . 

          Observing the chaos he had just instigated, Tony realized this was probably the last moment he would ever be completely unsupervised.  He only had a couple moments before the peacekeepers would be swarming the room, and needed to act quickly if he wanted to do anything.  Sadly, escape was not an option.  There was no way he would be able to run away from the center of the capitol without getting caught.  Still, he could at least leave something unsettling to make the gamemakers shake in their boots.  Getting an idea, he felt his way over to the nearest computer terminal.

          When the lights turned back on, the peacekeepers found Tony sitting idly on the floor as if nothing unusual had just happened.  Quickly striding to the center room, they wasted no time in hauling him upright.  Before Tony could even get in a few words, they had him in handcuffs and shoved him back out the door.  The rest of the tributes gaped as he was roughly pushed down the hallway.  Before he was forced into the elevator, he heard one of them cry, “What did he do?"

          After being interrogated by one of the capitol’s local peacekeepers, he was finally let back into his room.  He was pretty sure they bought his story about shooting the force field to get more attention.  His father apparently had been known for thinking he was better than anyone, and they found it believable that he was willing to discharge weapons at people to get their eyes on him. 

Sighing with relief, Tony rubbed the red marks where the handcuffs had dug into his wrists.  He was glad they decided it was safe to take them off once he was in the living area.  There was no way he was going to correct their mistake.

          Glancing to check the door to his room was still closed, he ran over to the view screen on the opposite wall.  Turning on the power, he prayed that his room would be connected to the rest of the tower.  Seeing a login pop up on the screen, Tony typed in a command to access the encryption device he had stuck on the training center’s computer terminal.  Loading, loading, and yes!  Tony made a silent fist pump.  He was in.

          Watching at the screen, Tony navigated his way into the data filed under “74th Hunger Games.”  Bypassing the firewalls with ease, he hacked into the scores given to the tributes.  Finding his name, Tony cursed at the number.  The gamemakers had given him a twelve. 

          If he held any doubts about his name being reaped as a mistake, they were now completely gone.  No tribute had ever gotten a twelve in the entire history of the games.  Given that he was not a career, the score painted a gigantic target on his back as a challenge to everyone who wanted to prove they were better than him.  Apparently the gamemakers wanted the other children to do the dirty work for them.

          Gazing at the other numbers, he was surprised to see that the male tribute from District Five had gotten a zero.  Yet another unprecedented score given out to an unknown tribute.  What was going on with the gamemakers this year?  Bruce Banner was the son of one of the previous victors; his reaping alone was unique.  Were they trying to get him killed too?

          Growling in frustration, Tony started pacing around his room.  He had already come to the conclusion that one way or the other, the capitol was going to kill him; it was unsettling to witness a different tribute face a similar fate.  The scores would be aired within the hour, and officially sign his and Banner’s death warrants.

          Annoyed at information his hacking had brought, Tony stopped.  Hacking!  He could change the tributes’ scores!  Rubbing his hands together in glee, he sat back down at the screen terminal.  Fingers resting on the keys, he almost smiled.  The capitol wasn’t going to be happy about this.


	9. Scores Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the length, I will now be updating regularly again!

Coulson walked briskly down the stairs of his team's apartment to join his two tributes in front of the viewing screen.  Taking note of their relative proximity, he stifled a sigh of relief.  One of them stood a chance of winning if they willing formed an alliance from the get-go.  He doubted their similar faces of disinterest were a facade.  Receiving the gamemaker's scores was merely a formality for the careers of District One; Coulson regretted they could not use their time more productively as the eve of the games drew near. 

As if on cue, the face of host Caesar Flickerman filled the screen.  "Welcome back to your live coverage of the 74th Annual Marvel Hunger Games!  Tonight, we  will disclose the scores of your tributes to get a glimpse of how prepared they are for the arena! Before we continue, let us watch a short video provided by the Capital!" 

Clint snorted at the advertisement that appeared, showing happy families prancing around the Capital.  "I can't believe people buy into these promos.  They're sickening." 

Natasha rolled her eyes, "Yes, and I'm sure you wouldn't act at all the same if given half as much candy as those children." 

Raising an eyebrow at their antics, Coulson shook his head and returned to watching the screen. 

"And now the moment you have all been waiting for!"  Flickerman smirked at the camera,  "The tributes' scores!" His face was replaced by a table including each districts' tributes and their respective evaluations. 

"What the fuck?" Clint shouted at the screen, " Is this a joke?"  Turning to Coulson, he almost felt afraid as the man appeared to visibly pale in front of him. 

Back ramrod straight, Natasha glared daggers as if she could burn straight through Coulson's eyes.  She bit out, "Explain." 

Eyes surveying the room, Coulson replied, "Explain what?" 

Exploding, Clint yelled,"Explain how the hell every single tribute got a score of 13!"

 

 


	10. A Numerical Explanation

Turning on his heel, Coulson called back, "Follow me.  We have a few more training exercises to do today." 

Clint angrily protested, "But what about the -"

"Secret ninja moves I told you about? Yes, we're going to learn them now."  Coulson cut in smoothly with a pointed look.

Remembering the Capitol tracked all their interactions, Clint replied slowly, "Of course.  The ninja moves.  How could I forget?"

Natasha arched an eyebrow, lightly stating, "That kind of memory lapse would be problematic in the arena.  Should I be rethinking our current alliance?"

Scowling, Clint almost ran his mentor's back as he abruptly stopped.  Looking around, Clint found he had no idea where they were.  The dimly lit stone hallway looked as if a giant tumbleweed of dust bunnies could come hurtling through at any moment, the area so musty that Clint had to hold his breath to keep from coughing.  Thankfully, Coulson finally finished whatever check he was doing and pushed them through the nearest doorway.

Eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness, Clint snorted, "A broom cupboard Coulson? Does the cleaning staff run some arcane dojo I should know about?"

Sighing in exasperation, Coulson replied, "This is one of the few places that the Capitol does not monitor.  The hallway we were just in was the tributes' wing when I was in the Hunger Games.  For some reason when they updated the facilities, they built a new set and left these untouched.  We took an old passageway probably created for the construction workers from the main hub of the training building to this one."

"So why the secrecy?" Natasha asked, eyes narrowing, "I mean the scores have obviously been tampered with, but how does a grading fluke warrant the risk of going off the Capitol's radar?"

"Before jumping to any conclusions, I think you both need to get a little bit more background on the history of the federation."  Coulson replied gravely, "What do you know about District 13?"

"District 13 led the planets' revolt against Thanos.  In short, they lost, got demolished, and gave us the wonderful gift of the Hunger Games," Clint answered in a bored monotone.  "What does that have to do with our wacked-up scores?"

"District 13 still exists."

Silence filled the room.  Natasha had reverted to her impassive 'you don't know what I'm thinking' face while Clint just looked gobsmacked.  Before either of them could speak, Coulson continued, "And before you start questioning its validity; I know District 13 exists because I've been there."

If silence filled the room before, a vacuum-like quiet now permeated every inch of space. Natasha's face was so stoic it could have been carved from marble while Clint's jaw looked like it might hit the floor.

"Before the planet District 13 was blown up, half of the people were evacuated onto a gigantic ship called the Helicarrier.  They have been traveling across the galaxy ever since; recruiting, training, and planning for the next revolution.  After I was crowned victor of my hunger games, I was able to arrange a vacation on a planet outside of Marvel Federation territory.  There I met Director Fury, and officially became an agent of SHIELD."

Seeming to have recovered some from his shock, Clint asked, "What's SHIELD?"

"Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate.  a.k.a., the revolution."  Watching Clint's hand twitch as Natasha took a protective step between them, Coulson continued,"Let me finish before you start planning my untimely death; The revolution may seem like a joke because all you've ever known is what the Capitol has told you.  You grew up with Thanos spurting propaganda into every class you took, every meal you ate, every bed you slept in.  He wants you to think he is invincible and the life you live is the best it can be.  This is not true.  He limits your freedom in every aspect of life, and never gained the omniscient power and knowledge he desires."

"And what makes you think we are unaware of this fact?" Natasha cut in.  Revealing nothing as Clint and Coulson stared at her in shock, "What would make you think I volunteered as tribute to gain the love of a Capitol that celebrates the death of its own children?"

Grumbling, Clint spat out, "Only because that is basically the only reason to volunteer!"

Waiting for him to calm down Natasha explained, "I heard rumors that District 13 was not quite as dead as the Capitol would have us believe.  I cannot change that I was brought up to be an assassin, but I can choose how I use the skills I've learned."  Taking a deep breath, she admitted, "I hoped that as victor I would reach a level of status that would enable me to discover more of the revolution and eventually help complete its mission."

Backing into the corner, Clint angrily growled, "So you've been in cahoots this whole time?  Planning to kill me off the moment I stopped being an asset to your master schemes?"

"No, Clint I swear -"

"I had no idea Coulson was a SHIELD operative until today.  I came in with the same information as you." Natasha firmly stated.

"And I would never have you killed, even if it benefited the revolt." Coulson added earnestly.

Taking a deep breath, Clint exhaled, "Okay. So let me get this straight."  Pointing at Natasha, "You became a tribute trying to join the revolution."  Pointing his other hand at Coulson, "And you are an undercover agent for the organization she wants to join."  Watching them nod in agreement, he asked, "So what's the deal with all the scores coming out as lucky old 13?"

"I believe it is a message to Thanos." Coulson answered.  

"And that means?" Clint asked warily.

"That means the games are about to get interesting," a gravely voice replied.

"Ah. Director Fury. How kind of you to join us," Coulson replied with a grimace.

Eyes darting around the room, Clint questioned the mysterious voice "Where are you?"

"Certainly not in the broom cupboard Mr. Barton.  Or do you prefer 'Hawkeye?'"

Face drawing in suspicion, Clint shouted at the ceiling, "Where did you hear that name?"

"SHIELD has eyes and ears everywhere Mr. Barton.  It's not so hard to look up an old circus troupe."

Clamping his hand over Clint's mouth, Coulson asked, "If I may sir, to what purpose did you initiate this communication?"

"Anthony Stark," the Director growled, "Has forced us to show our hand with his cute little scores stunt."  Before anyone could interrupt, Fury continued, "There was an idea, Coulson knows this, called the Avengers Initiative. The idea was to bring together a group of of remarkable people to see if they could become something more. To see if they could work together when we needed them to, to fight the battles that we never could."  Allowing that to sink in, he explained, "Working in the shadows, we would have had an elite team battle-ready in about five years.  Unfortunately for us, Anthony Stark just unwittingly notified the entire Federation that we were planning to attack."

Drawing a hand over his face in frustration, Coulson gritted out, "So decades of planning have just been scrapped because of some angsty teenager."

"Not necessarily," Fury replied mysteriously, "The only aspect we're missing is the team."

Clint choked off a laugh, "Oh great, you're only missing the center piece of your master plan. Who needs that?"

Before Coulson could reprimand him, Natasha spoke in a surprisingly confident voice, "You're going to use the tributes."

While Clint and Coulson stared as if she had grown another head, Fury affirmed her thoughts, "Very good Ms. Romanoff, you took the words right out of my mouth."

Clint and Coulson stared at each other as if the entire world had just been turned upside down and they were the only two left standing.  Taking advantage of their shock, Natasha explained, "You both must have noticed that the tributes this year are far from normal.  What are the odds that Thor Odinson and his long lost brother would be reaped for the games the same year?  Not to mention Bruce Banner, the son of a previous victor.”

“Thor, Sif and Loki have all been trained in combat since they were old enough to walk.  Banner and Stark are both certified geniuses.  Add the two of you, and we’ve got ourselves an elite squad.  Although a tad unconventional, I believe it has the potential to become a force to be reckoned with.” Fury supported.

“There’s one teeny tiny problem sir,” Clint coughed, “Only one tribute makes it out of the hunger games.”

Fury laughed, “You underestimate SHIELD.  We’ll break into the arena.  In addition to getting you out, we’ll be undermining the Capitol’s authority in the most visible way possible to jumpstart the revolution.”

Clint gaped, “You mean we could both get out alive?”

“That would be the point.  Now we need to get back to the training room before the Capitol notices that we put their cameras on a loop.” Coulson added, moving towards the door.

“Just one more thing,” Fury called out, “I’m trusting you both to keep this information secure.  Don’t make me regret my decision.”

With a chorus of “Yes, sir!”the three snuck back out of the cupboard.  


End file.
